Expletives: A Goth Love Story
by DizzyAlice
Summary: I wonder if Marsh realizes by now that he’s nothing more than a pet. Though I suppose I shouldn’t talk. Jealousy is such a conformist emotion. I felt like a failure just by acknowledging it. RedGothxCurlyGoth, CurlyGothxRaven, one-shot.


_Expletives: A Goth Love Story  
A South Park Fanfiction_

A/N: So I watched Raisins one too many times (I lie, I could never watch that episode too many times) and my brain urged me to write some GothLove. This is the first time I've ever even attempted that, so I don't know how good it is, but I had fun, and that's the important thing, right? Right. I made a lot of references to that episode so it might be a good idea for you guys to go watch it again too.  
Um yeah. Sorry if this is confusing due to the lack of names but I didn't want to use names because _technically_ the Goths don't have canon names (other than Henrietta of course) so just to clear things up, yes, the narrator is RedGoth, and the nameless "he" that the story is directed at is CurlyGoth.  
Pairings are RedGothxCurlyGoth and CurlyGothxRaven. This is a one-shot, btw.  
Warning for swearing, I guess? There's a lot of it (I counted and I used the word "fuck" or a variation of it twenty-eight times, lol) but I don't think it needs to be matured because of that... You guys tell me. If someone says I should up the rating I will. There's also a kind of intense makeout scene (which was wicked fun to write =D) but again, it's really not that bad.  
So once again, if you guys didn't catch that up there, **the narrator is RedGoth and the "he" is CurlyGoth**.  
I own nothing.  
Reviews are love~

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_"So take me and break me, and make me strong like you. I'll be forever grateful to this and you. It's only you, beautiful, or I don't want anyone. If I can choose, it's only you. And how could I miscalculate? Perfect eyes should have perfect aim. If I can choose, it's only you."_

_--No Seatbelt Song_ by Brand New

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Fuck.

I like that word. The hissed beginning. The heavy middle. The sharp, piercing end.

Fffff. Uh. Ck.

The way I dream of finally growing a pair and going up to him and saying the words I've turned over and over in my head.

"Fuck you. Or, better yet, fuck me."

He'd smirk, I know he would. He'd do that fucking sexy thing where he curls up one half of his mouth and narrows his eyes like he's staring straight into the depths of my black soul.

And then he would reject me.

Likely he'd say I was more than capable of fucking myself. Or something to that effect.

That's the only thing that's stopping me from saying those very lines to him right fucking now, as he leans against the outside wall of the school and watches me out of the corner of his eyes and I pretend like I'm not thinking about him, him, there's nothing _but_ him. And it's hard to stop myself from yanking that cigarette from between his lips and filling his lungs with my breath instead of the nicotine-laced smoke because, Christ, he just looks so…

_Fuckable_.

Shit. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to be like this. Everything was fucking dandy around here until _he_ came back into the picture.

Stan Marsh. Stan _fucking_ Marsh. That conformist asshole. My only obstacle.

We all loved Marsh in the beginning. We thought he was the greatest thing since black nail polish. He was new, he was different, he wasn't scared of us. He wanted to _be_ us. We welcomed him with open arms, and how does he repay us? Cussing us out and dropping everything we taught him to go back to his old conformist friends and his old conformist life.

They had a thing even back then. He gave Marsh his cane. He wouldn't even let me fucking _touch_ that cane. He even renamed him.

"Hey, Raven, check it out."

The words still haunt me.

And then, when Marsh ditched us, and he yelled after him. He pretended like he was pissed. But I had gotten good enough at reading him by then that I saw the real reason. He didn't want Marsh to leave. He didn't want us to see how much his precious Raven's declaration of "Screw you guys, I'm going home" hurt him.

He always thought Marsh would come back to us one day.

"He's one of us," he told me one time. "I can feel it. Underneath his conformist haircut and Ken-doll muscles Raven's soul is as dark as yours or mine."

"Yeah, okay," I spat, rolling my eyes. "I suppose next you're going to tell me Clyde Donovan is a Goth at heart, too?"

"Don't be jealous," he purred, leaning in so that his words would tickle the inside of my ear.

It was then, with his deep voice and his hot breath on my skin, that I realized two things.

The first was, obviously, that I wanted him to fuck me.

The second was that I really was jealous.

Jealousy is such a conformist emotion. I felt like a failure just by acknowledging it. I almost went to the point of digging out my old GAP clothes, but all that would prove was that I had given up altogether to fade back into the anonymity of "the kid with the pockmarks."

I was so not going to let conformist Marsh win so easily.

It was all well and good for a while. I think he even started giving up on Marsh. I actually fooled myself into thinking I had a chance, which I see now is the biggest fucking mistake I could've made.

Because then there was that day. That day when he showed up with Marsh at his heels like a pathetic conformist puppy. Apparently he had found Marsh all upset over something and managed to talk him into joining us again.

That day I knew it was over for me.

Marsh always just sits there, staring at him with those fucking big eyes, saying and doing anything to get his approval.

I wonder if Marsh realizes by now that he's nothing more than a pet. Marsh is just something cute to look at, something that will follow him wherever and do whatever he says. If Marsh has figured it out, then I guess he doesn't care, because he just keeps fucking coming back.

Though I suppose I shouldn't talk. I'd give anything – and I do mean _anything_ – to be in Marsh's place. I can't stand it. I can't stand that murderous rage that coils hot in my stomach every time he so much as pets Marsh's hair. God, I would kill for hair like his, all sleek and naturally black, not having to worry about his roots showing between dye jobs like mine always seem to. I could style it way better than he does, that's for sure.

And then there was that one time I gave Marsh that black eye. That wasn't really my fault, though – if they hadn't been pausing to play tonsil hockey every five minutes, well. It might not have turned out that way.

God, my fist colliding with his face felt so _fucking_ good, though.

But of course, he had to stand up to me for Marsh, because Marsh is too much of a fucking pussy to do it himself. He also needed to teach me that Marsh is his, and if I touch what is his I will be punished.

The worst part was that he didn't talk to me for a week afterwards.

This wouldn't be such an issue if he wasn't such a fucking tease. He always feels the need to talk right into my ear, making his voice all low and sultry. I love it when he does that, it gives me this feeling that no matter what it is he's saying, it's some sort of big secret, and I'm the only one important enough to be let in on it. But it doesn't help with the whole me-wanting-him-more-than-life-itself thing.

And he's always touching me. He puts his hand on my thigh when we're sitting together, seemingly oblivious to how hot and bothered I'm getting. He doesn't hesitate to steal the cigarette right out of my mouth, his fingers almost deliberately grazing my lips on the way. He brushes my hair out of my eyes when I get too lazy to flick it out of the way.

My hair – oh, my hair. It takes him a ridiculously long time to cut my hair. It's tedious the way he painstakingly razors the tips, running his fingers through my hair again and again.

I can feel the ghosts of those hands on my scalp just thinking about it.

Half the time I can just feel eyes on me, and without even looking I know it's him. It's always him. He's gotten to the point where he doesn't even bother looking away anymore. He just keeps right on staring, with this sort of curious look on his face, despite the fact that he must've–

"Hey." His sudden word – right in my ear, of course – jolts me from my thoughts. I try to minimize my automatic flinch of shock as I slide my gaze over to meet his, staring, always staring. "You're brooding. More so than usual. What's on your mind?"

I look at the ground, trying not to feel his breath hot on my skin, trying not to feel my heart picking up a nice, syncopated double-time, trying not to fucking _feel_ anything.

"Nothing. It's not important." Suddenly there's an intense heat on my fingers. They automatically fly open in pain. "Shit," I hiss. The cigarette I lit and forgot about burned itself down to a stub and the flame got my fingers.

The cigarette falls to the ground and melts a tiny crater in the snow before the red-orange tip extinguishes.

I lift my hand to survey the damage. Two spots, one on my index finger and one on my thumb, are quickly reddening. I grimace as they throb.

"Here," he murmurs, reaching for my hand. He lifts is closer to his face, so he can examine it as well. He frowns, raises it to his mouth, lightly presses his lips to the burnt spot on my index finger. He kisses is again before sticking his tongue out and running it up the whole length of my finger, and before I even know what's going on he parts his lips and slides my whole fucking finger into his mouth.

Holy fuck. Just watching that sent a fair amount of blood to my nether regions. I think the rest of it is in my face.

"Fuck," I groan, and he stops molesting my finger, dropping my hand. "Why do you do this to me?"

He's puzzled. I ignore his questioning gaze and shift my attention back to my finger, now slick with his saliva. Decisively, I slide it between my own lips, because I know this is the closest I'll ever come to tasting the inside of his mouth.

I let my eyes fall shut in bliss, because I also know that this is one of those rare moments of almost-happiness that come so few and far between in my wretched life. Christ, I'm pathetic.

But all I can taste now is my own mouth again, so I drop my still-throbbing hand and look at him. Just look.

I guess that look says it all, because suddenly his eyes sparkle with understanding.

And then he smirks. He does that fucking sexy half-smile with the partially-lidded eyes thing. Just like I knew he would.

I brace myself for what I'm sure is to come next. My whole body goes tense.

I am completely unprepared for him roughly shoving me into the wall and crushing his lips to mine.

I've seen the way he kisses Marsh, all soft and sweet, and this is nothing like that. This is violent, this is harsh, this is raw pain and beauty colliding at full force to create something entirely magnificent.

If he had been anything less than brutal I would've been disappointed.

Once I finally figure out what the hell is going on, I am eager to accept him. I bite at his lower lip hungrily, urgently egging him on. I taste the slight metallic flavor when my teeth accidentally close too forcefully over the soft flesh. He either doesn't notice or mind as he proceeds to probe every inch of my mouth with his tongue.

My body suddenly convulses and my hips are thrusting, grinding hard up into his as an almost feral groan erupts deep in my chest. My brain is past processing what is going on and I am running solely on this instinctual want – no, _need_ – to just be closer, closer, until he and I become one, until our bodies meld and our souls combine and our empty hearts stitch together to create the perfect boy. I want to swallow him while, I want him to keep slamming me into this wall, because yes, yes, it all feels _so_ good, so _fucking_ good, past the pain and the heat and the wildly groping hands and the mouths flying in some sort of erratic, erotic dance, it's all just _so fucking good_.

And I'm glad he's being rough, he's being harsh, because he knows that's what I need. I need him to bruise me, to break me, to claim me through his actions so I can remember the pain and know who caused it and finally know that I'm his, I was his all along, I just didn't realize.

Finally we separate, panting hard, and his lips are swollen and leaking blood and his hair is a mess and his eyes are black with lust and this is by far _the_ fucking sexiest I have ever seen him look.

He reaches up and wipes at the small spot of blood, which mostly just smears it. He smirks again and he says, "You know, all you had to do was ask."

"But what about Mar–" My voice is shaky and uncontrollable. "But what about Raven?" I amend.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "What about him?"

"Won't he care?"

"First of all, what Raven doesn't know won't hurt him. Second, even if he does find out, it's not like we ever agreed to be exclusive or anything. So what the fuck ever. I will do what I want – or who I want – when I want, and the way I see it, that's not his decision to make."

Raven, the innocent little puppy, following whatever commands his master dishes out. And strangely I know that in some weird way Marsh will be okay with this once he gets used to the idea. If he finds out, that is. And I sure as hell don't plan on telling him.

"Speaking of Raven, I promised him I'd go find him right around now. You want to come with?"

Normally I'd say no, fuck no, I really don't. But now, I really just want to spent as much time with him as possible, even if Marsh is there, too. Now, I know my quest isn't a futile one.

And, as he grabs my hand, wrapping his own around it and squeezing tightly as I follow him back into the building, my lips spread into the closest thing to a smile a Goth kid who hates life will ever know.

**The End.**


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